


Past, Imperfect

by Octoblink



Category: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, Naruto
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Naruto's Shitty Childhood, Snark, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, close the door behind you when you time travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-17 19:18:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10600491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octoblink/pseuds/Octoblink
Summary: Boruto stumbles upon a window in time. Falling through, he discovers the world of the past— and a chance to truly get to know his father.





	1. A Wind from the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps the wind  
> Wails so in winter for the summers dead,  
> And all sad sounds are nature’s funeral cries  
> For what has been and is not.

The wind blows icy and sharp through the streets, rustling up scraps of torn newsprint and ad flyers, and sending ripples scurrying across laundry hanging from clotheslines. It's uncanny weather this late in spring, and it's taken the village by surprise. The villagers linger indoors, savoring the warmth of modern air conditioning. Less fortunate street vendors are forced to don thick raincoats for shelter, and to muster smiles for the hurrying, huddled passers-by.

Among them, three young boys cluster together against the wind. They forge their way ahead, too dispirited even to run.

"This is such a scam," Boruto growls, hitching his jacket closer around his chest. It doesn't help. The wind cuts right through his double-stitched waterproof jacket like it's made of cobwebs and daydreams. "What the heck kinda weather is this? It's nearly March."

"There's pr-probably a storm c-c-coming," chatters his companion through blue-tinged lips. "Sometimes low p-pressure systems are preceded by drafts of cold wind. Though I'm pretty sure they're not usually _this_ cold."

"The heck, Denki? How'd you even _know_ that stuff?"

The smaller boy gives a mute shrug, shoulders hunched miserably. "I r-read?"

"Isn't there a shortcut somewhere?" says the third member of their group. He's gone right past miserable into a sort of ancient weariness that doesn't suit his angular young face. "If there isn't, I'm ditching you guys and heading to Inojin's place; I don't even care."

"Traitor," accuses Boruto. "You'd ditch us and save yourself?"

Shikadai shrugs. "You can come too. It's not like Ms. Yamanaka would kick you out or anything. Anyway, isn't the point to get out of the wind? Just give your mom a call or something, and let her know you'll be home late."

The blond boy wrinkles his nose, tucking his chin down against the wind. "No thanks. Inojin's dad creeps me out a bit."

"I c-couldn't," Denki says, shaking his head. "I've got lessons."

"We just got out of class!"

"Extra lessons."

Boruto gives him an incredulous look, and then shakes his own head in a mess of windblown blond locks. "Maybe it's for the best my dad's never around, if that's what you have to deal with at home. I mean, shoot. Someone's gotta teach you how to play hooky."

"I'm not hearing anything about a shortcut," comes a drawl from Shikadai.

"All right, all right! Just gimme a second."

Boruto takes a hard right without warning them, one hand reaching out to snag Denki by the elbow and drag him along. Shikadai follows without missing a beat—he's had more practice keeping up with Boruto's impromptu turns—and they all three duck under the awning of a greengrocers'. He leans back against the wall, feeling some of the warmth seep back into his fingers.

"Okay," he declares, scrubbing his forearm across his numb nose. "Okay, I have an idea. We can cross through the alley just past the movie rental place, and jump from the roof of the apartment building down and around the Shodai's forest—"

"Nope," Shikadai interrupts.

"Aw, c'mon! You said you wanted a plan."

"You think I'm crossing rooftops in this weather?" The other boy fixes him with a green-eyed gimlet stare. "Besides, Denki wouldn't be able to keep up. He can't exactly scale apartment buildings, can he?" He sighs, and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, man. The Yamanaka place is way closer. Feel free to come with."

Boruto chews his lip. It's a seriously tempting idea. He's been around Inojin's house a few times, as a kid when he got shunted off on playdates, and once or twice more recently. It's just a few blocks to detour from here, a cozy place that smells like flowers from the rooftop garden. What's more, Inojin's mom makes some kickass hot chocolate on the days she's off work.

But Himawari's gotta be stuck at home, nose pressed to the windows. Boruto's not a perfect kid or a perfect brother, but he tries—he tries to be home for dinner. Bad enough if Dad never shows up. He doesn't want to be the next to flake out on them.

"Nah, I'll head home," he says, sliding his hands in his pockets. "Mom's making hamburgers for dinner. Can't miss it."

Shikadai concedes this with a nod. "Suit yourself. Denki?"

The boy looks up at his name, still rubbing his fingers for warmth. "Do you think Ms. Yamanaka might let me borrow her phone? I've got to be home by four, but—" He shrugs in a self-deprecating sort of way. "—you're right that I can't keep up with Boruto."

"Et tu, Denki?"

"Sorry, I—"

"Kidding, kidding." Boruto slaps him on the shoulder. "Go have some hot cocoa for me. I'll see you guys in class tomorrow. Here's hoping the train's back on by then, or at least the wind's stopped going nuts."

"Don't fall off an apartment building on your way home," says Shikadai, entirely serious. "Your mom would murder me."

"Roger that."

He waves the two of them goodbye, takes a breath, zips his jacket to his chin, and steps back into the wind.

* * *

Okay, so Shikadai and Denki might've had the right idea after all.

It's a tough battle between Boruto's pride and reality before he can bring himself to concede the point, but _seriously_. Every step he takes across the rooftop sends him skidding back two more until he finally gets the hang of keeping his center of gravity low. It's slow and tedious and pretty much completely defeats the point of going across the rooftops in the first place.

He grabs an aluminum gutter for a handhold and flinches back with a hiss at the unexpected cold. The wind's picked up. It's going right to his bones through his flesh, and his eyes have been watering since ages ago. If Mom knew he was up here—well, shit. She's got this thing about fifty-foot drops and iffy chakra control that defies logic. He'd be grounded in a heartbeat. Literally.

By the time he reaches the next street over, his face is probably wind-chapped raw. He clambers down the gutter with undignified urgency and takes shelter behind a dumpster.

A dumpster. _This_ is what he's been reduced to.

His plan to circumnavigate the forest seems less appealing by the second. No shelter from the wind except the stone wall and the occasional telephone pole? No thanks. But he's walled himself into a corner by coming all this way, and unless he wants to backtrack he's gotta keep going.

"Wind or trespassing," he muses aloud. Given the words are snatched from his lips by a particularly aggressive gust, the choice is pretty clear. "Trespassing it is!"

He clears the stone wall into the forest in a single jump, and doesn't stop running until he stops feeling like the wind is about to claw his face off. And, oh yeah, this is ten times better than hoofing it out on the street. Big bro Konohamaru would so totally disapprove, but then Boruto hadn't really cared much about his disapproval since he was maybe six years old. Basically the instant he gets under the cover of the trees, the wind diminishes to almost nothing.

Boruto sighs in relief and unzips his jacket, running a hand through his tangled hair. "Thank _god._ "

The words echo strangely in the glade.

He shuts his mouth with a snap. Okay. So maybe when trampling through a sacred forest bound to the memory of the village's ancestral founder—even in a time of very strict necessity—silence is the better part of discretion. Yeah, probably.

 _It's not even really trespassing, though_ , he tells himself uneasily. _It's not like anyone uses it or anything._

The Shodai's preserve is just another ordinary patch of forest in a village surrounded by the stuff. Only the weight of the name attached to it keeps it from being repurposed for city expansion. Probably superstition more than anything else—doesn't the _entire_ forest technically belong to the Shodai in some way? He thinks he remembers hearing that story from someone.

Anyway, Boruto _is_ the Hokage's kid, like it or not. And the guy (nominally) in charge of the historical preserves for the village just so happens to be _whoops, you guessed it._ So he feels totally within his rights to take advantage of the trees. If Dad wanted him kept out, he shoulda done a better job keeping an eye on the place.

Without him talking, the air hangs silent. He can hear the sound of the wind rustling in the very uppermost boughs, but only distantly. It's like the sound of static on a radio far away. The sunlight is muted to a dim phosphorescent green, suited to the moss and ferns cropping up around the thickly rooted ground. And it _is_ thick. Only quick reflexes and practice dodging phone lines keeps him from tripping flat on his face.

That's when he looks up from his reverie and groans. "Crap."

A sea of mammoth, uniform trees stretches around him. He can't even see the outline of apartment buildings and city lights he'd left behind. He meant to just cut across the very edge of the forest, but _no._ He'd gotten distracted about stupid details like getting caught, and just charged blindly straight in like a complete moron. Truly, another brilliant move by Boruto Uzumaki.

What kind of Leaf ninja gets lost in a forest? Even for an Academy student, this is just _embarrassing._

The trees are too broad to climb, so he picks the largest one and rigs some ninja wire to hoist himself up. By the time he reaches the top, his palms are red and smarting. He rubs them against his chest with a wince— this is why only perfectionists like Sarada Uchiha actually use ninja wire. He harbors a secret suspicion that the Uchiha bloodline magically prevents wireburn.

And, yeah, he'd been daydreaming way longer than he'd thought. How else would he have managed to end up right smack in the middle of a sizable chunk of forest?

Okay. Regroup.

Boruto slides back down to the earth from a lower branch, marking his position mentally. As long as he doesn't get turned around, he can navigate using the plants on the ground to exit on the northeast side, closest to home. As long as he doesn't get himself distracted like an idiot—

_Is that a spiral?_

Aaaand again. Not even two seconds—practically a record.

He stares at it, still absentmindedly coiling up his wire for reuse, and his brain stubbornly refuses to provide a reasonable explanation for it. Not just your typical knot of wood or anything like that. There's no mistaking it for anything other than what it is. A handsbreadth in diameter, carved—no, _burnt_ —into the trunk of the tree, some three feet off the ground. It's the kind of symmetrical shape that just doesn't occur naturally, and he _recognizes it._

It's the Uzumaki emblem.

As a kid, Boruto had thought that emblem was cool. Out of all the clans in the village, only the Uzumaki had their emblem on the ninja uniform and as part of the village crest. The mark of friendship, Dad had explained once. Back when the Uzumaki came from a different village, they'd used that symbol to show their alliance to the Leaf. Even if no one really called it the Uzumaki spiral anymore, that was still pretty incredible.

But he'd soured to it real quick once he was old enough to realize that it was basically just Dad's signature mark. People didn't see it and think _Uzumaki_ — they thought _the Seventh Hokage_. Mom used to sew it covertly onto the hems of Boruto's clothes, along with the Hyuga patch, but he'd complained about it until she stopped. Everyone and their mother already knows he's the Hokage's son. The last thing he needs is a big red spiral to remind them.

His hand reaches out to touch the burned spiral, then hesitates, and looks around guiltily. Maybe he'd be better off mentioning it to Dad, just in case.

 _In case of what, splinters?_ He shakes himself. He's an Uzumaki, dammit, as much as Dad is. It's practically his responsibility to investigate stuff like this.

Boruto takes a quick, bracing breath, and touches the emblem.

Nothing happens.

A forceful tap elicits exactly the same amount of nothing. Okay, so he's starting to feel kind of stupid for expecting—what had he been expecting?—from what was probably the work of some bored graffiti arsonist or something. Clearly he's seen too many movies about ancestral tombs locked deep in the heart of an unknown forest.

He chews his lip. There's something nagging at him— like looking at a math problem, and he  _knows_ there's a solution, he just can't quite make the pieces come together in his head. And when that happens, there's one way around it-- you stop thinking, stop worrying, and open yourself up to intuition. So he closes his eyes and focuses his chakra into his hand.

It flickers, coalesces into a blue haze, and Boruto lifts his hand to the spiral.

It flares into light.

"Shit, shit, shit—" He lets out a squeak that he'll swear afterwards was exceedingly manly, and tries to pull his hand back. It's _stuck_. His stomach churns with panic, and he yanks again. The force stretches his skin from his bones painfully, and his eyes water with pain, but by the time he slumps back to the tree his hand is still stubbornly unmoved.

Underneath his hand, though, the tree is _changing_.

The light spools into a pattern around the emblem, winding and unwinding into a larger spiral, connecting and splitting off in a web of interconnected matrices conforming to the broad base of the trunk. It slows down towards the end, stabilizing, evening out until there's a circle four feet in diameter.

Shivering, it creaks in on itself. Then there's a sharp clicking sound, and it begins to open.

"I'm sorry!" Boruto yelps, pulling fruitlessly. "I promise I'll never come back again, I swear, just lemme _go!"_

With a lurch, it does.

* * *

Boruto hits the ground heavily. Something hard bangs the base of his spine, sending a jolt of pain up his back and sparks flashing in his eyes. He inhales sharply, waiting for the white-hot pangs to fade into something more manageable. Shortcuts be damned; he is _never ever_ coming in this hellhole forest ever again.

When he can breathe, he hauls himself away from the tree on hands and knees. He's panting, eyes huge as he stares at symbol that _is still glowing, dammit_!

"Okay. _God_. Think."

Pros: the appendage-sucking Uzumaki tree decided to regurgitate his hand with all relevant bits attached. Cons: he may have inadvertently screwed up some seriously bad mojo in a forest he's not supposed to be in the first place, and considering the way the mark continues to glow without any sign of fading, his screw-up might just be permanent.

... it's _definitely_ time to find Dad.

He snatches his bag and bolts. Doesn't matter which direction he goes now: with ninja all over town, all he has to do is find a chunin on duty and convince them to take him to the Hokage. They all know the transportation technique, so it's not like it'll be hard—the only obstacle is his personal pride, and recent events have proven that remarkably inconsequential.

Boruto finds the edge of the forest after fifteen minutes of sprinting full-tilt through the undergrowth. It's a far longer trip than he remembers going in—how the heck did he manage to wander for some two or more _miles_ without noticing?— and his lungs are raw with panting. It takes him two tries to vault the stone wall, after his foot catches on the first jump.

He's always been quick, able to keep up with kids twice his age easily. Shikadai complains about it constantly. But he's pushed past his limits this time. He halts atop the wall, chest heaving and eyes swimming, not caring if someone sees him. Dimly, he notices that the sharp wind has vanished as well. Maybe it's just the sweat soaking his shirt, but the air seems more humid.

 _"_ Can the weather just make up its mind, please? _"  
_

Just his luck, too: he's somehow managed to end up in the one corner of the village that looks completely unfamiliar.

His first thought, _since when does Leaf have a slum_? is probably rude but totally warranted. The buildings look ancient: tiny rounded things stacked precariously atop one another. A latticework of pipes winds in and around the walls, and when he looks for a telephone pole to use as a vantage point, he can't find one. The sides of the buildings are patched where the wood has worn through, and the paint flakes away to show a layer beneath.

He wrinkles his nose. "Majorly slacking on the urban development, Dad."

More importantly: find a chunin, avert disaster.

Without the wind to deal with, it's a lot easier to make his way to the rooftops. A lady inside one of the buildings sees him; she raps the window loudly and shouts something at Boruto. You'd think she'd be used to having ninja on her roof—it _is_ a Hidden Village—but he takes the hint and moves on.

He's starting to feel more and more disconcerted as he goes, though. Like a foreigner in his own city. Sometimes he thinks he recognizes a street crossing or a landmark, but just as soon it fades away into more twisted dirt roads and shabby buildings. Did that tree screw with his head? He thought he knew the whole village back to front, but he can't even tell where in the village he _is_ right now.

There! A flash of green.

Relief surges through him, and he skids to a halt on the rooftop. There's an unfamiliar chunin kneeling at his post atop what looks like some kind of bank. He's looking the other way, but Boruto cups his hands around his mouth and bellows, " _Hey! 'Scuse me! There's an emergency!"_

The chunin glances around, frowning—then he sees Boruto and stands.

That's as much of an invitation as Boruto needs. He's bounding across the street before you can say _evil magic tree_ and vaults onto the roof of the bank. It's a bit of a trick to manage without any telephone poles, and he hides a spark of pride at the neat landing. Judging from his glower, the chunin is Not Impressed.

"Look," Boruto says breathlessly. "It's really, really important that I go talk to the Hokage like _right this instant_ , and I can't really explain why, but if you could like give me a lift or point me in the right direction that would be great because I've somehow managed to get myself lost, don't ask me how."

 _Do you know you babble?_ Sarada had once asked him coolly. Well, fine, touché, whatever. He's just the tiniest bit panicked right now and so what if it's showing through?

The chunin's frown deepens. "You want _me_ to take _you_ to the Hokage?"

"Well, _yeah_." He wouldn't normally answer an adult with sarcasm, but _seriously_. Talk about dumb questions! "The sooner the better." He hesitates for a moment, then, because his Mom raised him right, he tacks on a "Please?"

"I don't think so, kid." His mouth twists before saying 'kid', like he's inclined to tack on a stronger epithet. "Whatever you're up to, you can do it without bothering the Hokage."

Okay, what is this guy's issue? Boruto takes a step back, more bewildered than hurt. Never in his entire _life_ has an adult looked at him with that much dislike. Even among his stupidest exploits, even when he shredded five hundred pages of his Dad's paperwork because his dumb five-year-old self thought _that_ was what kept him away from home all the time, even when he crashed the Kaminarimon Express into the Hokage mountain— never. Not even when he's probably deserved it.

"Look, I'm telling you it's an _emergency!_ Are you just gonna ignore that?"

The chunin snorts. "An emergency. Yeah, right. The Hokage's a busy man." Again, that ugly downturn of the mouth. "If you ask me, you've wasted far too much of his time already. Now scram, before I haul you down to the precinct myself."

Boruto stares. "I know he's busy! He's literally always busy!" His voice is reaching a truly astronomical pitch and he can't even bring himself to care. "I know I've done some dumb stuff but don't you think I know the difference between that and a real problem?"

"The only problem here is you. I'm not going to warn you again."

And wow, Boruto's actually struck speechless by that. His heart is thrumming in his throat and he doesn't trust himself to move in case he tries to punch the guy. In the end, all he can manage is a choked, bewildered, "Do you—do you not know who I am or something?"

'Cause that would be, like, a whole new spectrum of completely screwy. Boruto has been reliably informed all his life that he's basically the spitting image of his dad: blonde hair, blue eyes, whisker marks, the works. If the _one solitary time_ he needs someone to recognize him as the Hokage's son is the miraculous first occasion that someone fails to do so, he might just choke on the irony.

The guy shifts. It's a slight movement, but suddenly he looks almost threatening. "Trust me; I know _exactly_ what you are."

Seeing as the world is officially insane, Boruto does the only thing he can do.

He turns and runs as fast as he can away from the psycho paranoid chunin, barely paying attention to the streets that flash past him. Something is seriously wrong, and he would _definitely_ like to know who promoted that irrationally hateful screwball to the village guard. He'd give anything to see a familiar face right now—Mom or Himawari, or Shikadai or Sarada or even _Dad_.

Except now he's facing south, towards the Hokage Mountain.

And he finally sees what he's missed.

Or rather, he sees what's _missing._

Four faces are carved on the mountainside, more familiar than anything yet in this bizarre mirror of the Hidden Leaf. Only four. Then, after Grandpa Minato, it's just empty stone.

A sound like a choked, gurgling laugh forces its way up his throat. It's ten parts hysteria and _zero_ parts amusement, and Boruto's next footstep twists under him until he's sliding down the side of the roof, gripping the shingles by his fingertips. He can't catch his breath because he's still laughing and he can't stop, not even when he starts feeling lightheaded.

"Oh, _god_ ," he says, "What did I _do_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked the Boruto pilot; can you tell? Will attempt to update in time with the anime; we'll see how long that lasts. Thanks for reading!


	2. Foresight Is Not 20/20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hear the little children of the wind  
> Crying solitary in lonely places.

Boruto spends the next five minutes—okay, maybe it's closer to ten—quietly hyperventilating on the rooftop. He probably looks like a complete maniac, clinging to the roof of a two-story building with his knees pressed to his chest and his hands tangled in his hair, staring uncomprehendingly at the unfamiliar streets of a barely-familiar village and worst of all, the _wrong, wrong, wrong_ four-faced Hokage monument.

He's in the _past_.

Wait, no. _Past_ implies there's a present to go back to, and he doesn't know that. For all he knows, that stupid spiral seal was some kind of History Eraser button, and he's just wiped out the last twenty-odd years of time because of his stupid misguided curiosity. His stomach twists painfully, and hurriedly he leans over the side of the roof in case he really does hurl—but he hasn't eaten since the morning, and nothing comes up.

Sure, _he's_ still here and reassuringly corporeal, but he's also the only one who was touching the seal. Shikadai, Inojin—god, _Himawari_ —they'll all have vanished just as suddenly and irrevocably as the three Hokage from the mountainside. Either he finds a way to fix this, or he's just killed them all permanently— _nope not helpful, stop thinking that_.

He's gotta believe he can reverse this. He'll go crazy otherwise.

He runs his hands through his hair for the umpteenth time, and scrubs his face dry on his forearms. Grime and sweat streak his skin from his trek through the woods, and he's only just beginning to feel the ache of various scrapes and bruises through the haze of panic. His breath is finally easing when one more physical sensation hits him hard.

Hunger.

"You've gotta be _kidding,"_ Boruto groans, wrapping his arms around his middle. They've got a crisis of epic proportions here, and his stomach takes this moment as the perfect time to register its resentment at not being filled since breakfast.

Of course he carries money with him, but he has a sinking suspicion that most restaurants won't accept bills minted twenty years from now. Maybe more—he doesn't know what year this is supposed to be. Besides, starvation is definitely preferable to the look on Mom's face if he ever tried stealing food. A second realization follows this one like a gut punch, making him exhale sharply: if he can't figure this out by nightfall, he won't even have a place to sleep.

He drags a hand down his face. _This is such a mess._

Below him, there's a snap of a window being shoved open. A woman wearing an apron leans out from the building adjacent and glowers up at him. Her hands are dusty with flour and she brandishes a rolling pin in one hand. "Oi! Brat! Keep off the roof!"

And this just _keeps_ happening.

"You heard me, you little creep!" She's howling, and they're starting to attract attention from pedestrians. "How many times do I have to tell you to stay away? I'll call the village guard, don't think I won't!"

"Look, lady, I don't even _know_ you—"

She lifts the rolling pin like she's thinking of throwing it at him. "I said get lost, Uzumaki!"

_Uh, what?_

"Uzu—?" he begins to echo, but then he catches sight of a few chunin heading his way from the east. Probably trying to track down the cause of the disturbance that is totally not his fault. Past-Leaf needs to start public anger management classes or something, if everyone's so perpetually pissy. But it's time to prioritize, and he really doesn't wanna be interrogated by the village guard.

So he sticks out his tongue at the baker and runs for it.

He swings from a gutter down into the alley behind a fishmonger's, and wrinkles his nose at the stench. Yeah, that's rotting fish guts for sure. But he can't keep to the rooftops anymore. They probably be patrolling the market district for troublemakers all afternoon.

If he keeps heading east, he'll eventually make it back to the Shodai's forest. The streets and buildings may not be the same, or even the borders of the village, but the forest has remained miraculously in roughly the same place all these years. Once he gets there, he's gonna figure out what he did and _fix it_ , since contacting the Hokage officially stopped being a good idea when the Hokage stopped being Dad. If he just pops into headquarters and claims to be a time-traveler—potential paradoxes aside—he'll probably get tackled by the Hokage's personal guard before he makes it two steps inside.

His stomach rumbles again.

_... and keep an eye out for food on the way._

* * *

The forest is bigger than it was before. Or technically, it's bigger than it will be in the future?

Ugh.

If Boruto thinks about it too hard it makes even _less_ sense. But the point is that the forest stretches far beyond the bounds of the Shodai's preserve, all the way to a walled-off public park studded with trees way smaller than the looming monstrosities that lurk in the center. If he'd been paying attention, he would've noticed that on his way out, instead of just being frustrated by the seemingly interminable run. Pity he'd been preoccupied by being panicked out of his mind.

Now he takes his time, careful not to draw attention to himself. There are a few kids playing in the park, a few parents and older siblings watching from benches, and not one of them sees Boruto making his way along the edge of the clearing. His stealth skills are well-honed after years of sneaking away from Konohamaru's supervision; he is a _master_ of inconspicuousness. Inconspicuosity? Which, okay, maybe he's never evaded Mom, but she has the _Byakugan_. The Hyuga don't play fair.

He expects it to be tricky, finding his way back to the exact same tree as before. It's not like he had the sense to think of marking the trail before, and now there's even more forest to deal with. But to his surprise, he steps through the glade without hesitation. It's less of a conscious choice, and more of an itch in the back of his mind, guiding him over tangled roots and through low-hanging branches muffled by ferns.

More skeptical minds might hesitate. To Boruto, who's always trusted in his intuition, it's a relief: anything's better than going in blind.

But before he can set off into the forest, he's stopped by the sound of voices.

The words are muffled by distance, but the tone carries. It's an argument, no doubt about it. A person with better judgment would probably keep moving, but Boruto's been reliably informed he lacks any semblance of common sense. (Thanks, Sarada.) He puts aside the itch in his mind, which tells him to keep moving deeper into the forest, and edges through the trees towards the sound. Three of them, maybe four, talking at intervals? He wishes his ears were as good as Uncle Kiba's.

Boruto catches a glimpse of motion in a clearing ahead and ducks behind a tree. Yeah, there's at least four of them. They're standing around with their backs to him, but he can tell even from this distance that they're boys, taller than him if not older. A stream runs past the glade, rendering the earth soft and spongy. Boruto winces and tries to ease his sandal out of the dirt without a telltale _squelch_ when the figures shift. There's another kid visible through the gap. He squints.

In the middle, sandals slipping in the mud, stands a scrawny blond kid in an orange jacket.

* * *

Boruto's stomach does a triple somersault and fails to stick the landing.

Of all the clearings in all the forests of Past-Leaf, he just _had_ to walk into this one. He ducks back behind his tree and tries uselessly to—to stop his heart thumping unevenly against the inside of his ribs, to think straight, to convince himself to pick himself back up and keep walking like he didn't see anything.

Except— _Dad._

Before he can stop himself, he's twisting back around for a better look. Like this, it's kind of blindingly obvious how much they look alike. Kid-sized Dad is a bit skinnier than Boruto, the shape of his eyes is a bit more angled, his hair untidier, and his jacket is the same eternal shade of eye-blistering orange as ever. Other than that, and the cut oozing blood down the side of Dad's face, they could almost be twins.

Wait, blood?

"Tell you what, _Naruto_ ," says one of the big kids. He's got a baseball bat over one shoulder and a clan mark Boruto doesn't recognize in blue across his face. "If you get on your knees and beg, we'll let you go in one piece. Sound good?"

It's painfully cliché. Dad— _Naruto_ —must have the same idea, because he raises his fists and spits, "Maybe if you get lost, I won't have to make you!"

Looks like Boruto gets his sweet comebacks from Mom's side of the family. But it gets the point across, and the big kids start snickering. "I'd like to see you try," sneers one. He's wearing a cap, and there's a faint red patch on one cheekbone, as if he'd recently had a rash. "I guess you can't count, either. There's four of us and one of you."

"Maybe you'd better run and find your friends," adds the first boy. "Except you don't _have_ any, do you, you little freak?"

"Shut up!" It's so _bizarre_ , hearing Dad's crackling voice pitched younger. "I can take you all on myself."

They burst into another round of snickering.

Naruto brings his hands up to form a seal— _Ha. And they think they've got him outnumbered._

"Not this again," says the third boy dismissively. "Everyone knows you're as useless at ninjutsu as you are everything else. Give it up."

Then Naruto drops his hands and lunges forward, tackling the first kid into a tree. The baseball bat goes rolling away with a thump, and the sound jolts the others into motion. One of them lumbers over and pulls him off the ground bodily, easily dodging the flailing kicks, and drives a fist into his gut. Naruto lets out a sound like a popped balloon, wheezing as he tries to inhale.

_Why isn't he fighting back?_

That is, he's throwing punches and kicks, and trying to do something akin to dodging, but he's losing. And that just doesn't compute. He's getting the crap kicked out of him, for god's sake. Where's Kurama? Where are the shadow clones?

Naruto bites off a cry of pain, and—

_-god dammit—_

Boruto's spinning back around before he can stop himself. He's in the clearing in a heartbeat, lunging at the tallest one with his fist already drawn back. They slam into the dirt like sacks of wet concrete. Fingers yank on his hair hard, and the guy's trying to knee him in the ribs— _none of that, you jerk_ —and Boruto elbows him in the face before rolling away.

"Who the hell are you?" demands the guy Naruto tackled earlier. He's got a trail of blood dripping from one nostril.

Instead of answering, he swings around and punches the guy. His opponent tries to bring up an arm to guard, but he's not watching his feet. Boruto sticks out a foot, trips him, then grabs him by the guard arm and slugs him in the gut.

"Don't beat up little kids!" he shouts, punctuating his sentence with another punch. "Not! Cool!"

The guy reels back, dazed, and slumps over coughing. Meanwhile, the others have gotten over gaping: one of them goes for Dad; the other two bear down on Boruto. They have some kind of training, but it's not any Academy style he knows—they're lobbing punches and taking hits like they've got some serious muscle mass, and that kind of risky intense training was replaced with strategy-based combat _years_ ago— oh.

Okay, he's blaming that one on distraction.

He drops to avoid a punch, momentarily forgetting the guy behind him, and gets kicked in the ribs for his trouble. One of them grabs his hair, pulling him off balance; Boruto reaches up and jams his fingernail into the carpal nerves. The guy drops him like a hot poker, but the other fills in the gap.

Boruto kicks out, aiming to knock the first guy's knees out from under him; but he misjudges the angle and there's a sickening pop—from his opponent's kneecap or his toes, he isn't sure. He straightens, trying to balance himself and duck at the same time. He sidesteps a punch—oh, yeah, he is _so_ good at this, three on one, no sweat because this is Boruto effing Uzu—

White-hot pain blooms on the back of his skull.

He falls forward, gagging. His head is one huge throbbing mess, and his movements are jerky when he tries to roll over and keep an eye on his opponent—

"You _ass,_ " Boruto wheezes. "You could kill someone with that!"

The kid—because it _is_ a kid, older than Boruto but he can't be more than twelve—looks down at the baseball bat in his hand compulsively. For a moment his face screws up in uncertainty. Then he shakes himself and scowls; he's trying to play it cool, instead of admitting he doesn't have a single clue what he's doing. Like a complete _idiot_.

"Bet you wish you never messed with us," sneers his friend, less shaken. "Shove off already. Everyone knows Uzumaki's not worth it."

"Shut your mouth!"

For a split second Boruto's mind blanks to everything but the pain and then he's staring open-mouthed as the bat-wielding kid gets _tackled_ by a flurry of blond and orange. The last bully is howling over a hand dripping with blood—looks like Naruto bit him—and then he tunes in enough to realize he should be helping. But the other kids Boruto took care of are starting to rise from the ground, and he really should probably _not_ use ninjutsu if he can help it—

Naruto Uzumaki looks up at him with blue eyes under a shock of blond hair. Up close, Boruto can see the whisker marks, half-hidden under a smear of dirt, three on either side. The cut on his temple is already starting to close up under the congealing blood.

" _Come on!_ " Boruto hisses, and grabs his wrist. "Let's get out of here already!"

* * *

It's probably lucky the other boys don't seem in a mood to follow them, because they don't so much run as stagger out of the clearing. Boruto's head is spinning, but he doesn't feel secure enough to slow to a halt until they're a good distance away. He leans over and braces himself on his knees: getting clocked over the head multiplied his headache by a factor of a thousand. Then, when he's caught his breath, his disbelief catches up to him.

"What the _heck_ was that?" he demands incredulously.

"What, me saving your neck?" Naruto straightens, brushing off dirt from his orange jacket and shorts. He looks more irked than concerned by the deep gouge on the palm of his hand, and gives Boruto a pointed look. "You're welcome for that, y'know. Whoever you are."

"No, before that! Those guys were beating the crap outta you. And you were—you were just—" His tongue is tripping over air; he can barely find the words. "Why weren't you fighting back?"

"Fighting— _what?_ "

"Aren't you a ninja? They had weapons; it would've been self-defense—"

"Screw you, man!" Naruto yanks his arm away, eyes flashing. "I didn't ask for your help! Also, _no_! I'm an Academy student, not a genin! Do you _see_ a headband?" Pointedly, he jabs a finger at the goggles on his forehead. "And I told you, I had it handled!"

"That's not how it looked from where I was standing."

"It's none of your business, anyway! What do _you_ care if I get beat up? D'you see anyone else sticking their nose in?" He's spitting mad and just keeps gaining momentum, starting to punctuate every word with flailing arms. "What are you, some kind of stalker? Quit talking like you know anything about me! I don't know you, and I don't owe you!"

" _Owe_ me—don't be stupid!"

"Don't call me stupid!"

Figures Dad would be just as aggravating as ever in kid form. Boruto grits his teeth and puts up his hands. "I'm not calling you stupid! I just—why wouldn't you use shadow clones or something, against that many opponents! Then I wouldn't've had to step in to keep you from getting your butt kicked in the first place!"

Naruto stares at him uncomprehendingly. "Shadow _what?_ "

Crap.

"I mean, clones! Or like a transformation or something, you must know _some_ ninjutsu—"

"Maybe I've _tried!_ Maybe they've gotten used to it, d'you ever think about that?" He growls and scuffs his foot against the ground, sending pebbles skittering along the rocky path. "And I didn't see you trying anything like that when you jumped in in the first place—which, _again_ , does it look like I asked you to do that?"

The realization quells Boruto's retort before it reaches his lips. That fight back there wasn't Naruto holding back or going easy out of some weird misguided altruism. He was just really truly a mediocre fighter, even when he was doing his best. He... wow. He'd heard Dad's speeches about hard work and starting from the bottom, but he'd always taken them as the usual feel-good pep talks he gave everyone. But he'd been _trying_ , and yet...

Naruto's still glowering at him, arms crossed. Strangely enough, Boruto's never seen his dad really angry, really _mad_ at someone because they're being unreasonable. Even when Himawari almost got kidnapped as a kid, and he'd been the closest to furious Boruto had ever seen him, it was still a steady, focused _intent_ , like he'd slipped into a different mode of being. But it looks like once upon a time, he used to get pissed off like a normal person.

Which Boruto might just deserve. He is being kind of uncool.

He runs his hands through his hair. "Shoot. Look, I'm sorry for, uh, jumping your fight. I wasn't planning on dragging you out of there. To be honest, there wasn't really a plan all. I just... I saw you getting beat up. So I did what anyone would do, y'know?"

It's pretty graceless—Boruto's not great at this kind of thing—but something in his tone must come through, because Naruto deflates a little from his righteous fury. He slides his arms into the pockets of his jacket and stops glaring quite so angrily. "Uh, not really?"

"Well, what anyone _should_ do," he amends. "Teaming up on a littler kid, four-on-one? They were asking for a beating."

"I'm no littler than you are," grumbles Naruto, but his voice has lost its sharp edge of annoyance. Now he just sounds bemused. "Fine, whatever. So you just go crashing into other peoples' fights like some kinda hero of justice? And what's with your face, anyway? That's just creepy, man."

"My _what?_ "

He puffs out his cheeks and points from his own whisker-marks to Boruto's impatiently. "Copying me. I know my style's awesome, but that's way overboard. And if you were jealous, you shoulda started with your jacket. I mean, _pink_?"

"It's _fuchsia!_ And who're you to talk? You look like a pumpkin!"

"Orange is badass!" Naruto informs him staunchly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It's way better than pink. Orange is the color of fire; but there's nothing pink that's cool."

"That's not the _point._ " This circular conversation is giving Boruto a headache to match the one from the lump on his head. he's never been able to out-stubborn his dad, and this kid version is twice as cantankerous. "I'm not copying you! You're not the only one in the world allowed to have weird birthmarks!"

There's a pause that stretches uncomfortably long. Naruto eyes him so intently you can practically see the gears turning in his head. Better put a stop to that right now—Dad's not the smartest person in the world, but he's got an intuition to beat Kakashi's. Boruto clears his throat. "How come those guys were after you, anyway?"

It's a good chance to change the topic, but his curiosity is real. He's heard stories about Dad's childhood, but none of them ever included 'getting beat to a pulp in the park': for obvious reasons, Mom left that out of the highlight reel. As kids, he and Himawari had always wanted to hear the stories about exciting missions and battles. Mom always said that Dad was really cool in the Academy, the kind of guy who never let anything stop him. Boruto eyes the skinny kid in front of him—scrappy and stubborn, sure, but no one in their right mind would call him _cool_.

"Guess they were bored? They're kinda jerks." Naruto grins puckishly. "Well, except that guy with the hat. Him, I got with itching powder last week. Only just got rid of the rash, from the looks of it." His tone is almost wistful. "Serves him right."

Boruto stares. "So it _was_ your fault?"

"What? No! Are you even listening? Trust me, they were asking for it. And you should stay clear of them, too, now you've gone and got involved in the mess."

"Yeah, I'm planning on clearing out of this place as soon as I can." It's starting to hit Boruto—both figuratively and literally with the pounding throb of his skull—that 'getting involved in the mess' doesn't begin to cover it from a temporal standpoint. He winces and brushes his fingers of the back of his hair, which is tacky with blood and starting to dry. "I should probably go sooner than later."

"Your head is still bleeding. Are you gonna be okay?

"Head injuries do that," he mutters, eyeing the other boy's temple. The skin is unmarked under the drying blood, like nothing was ever there to begin with. That would be Kurama's healing power taking effect. Unluckily for Boruto, he only inherited the Uzumaki bloodline. Quicker healing, sure, but not that drastic. Nah, he'll be nursing this one for a week at least. "Should prob'ly get it checked out, though. Might have a concussion or something."

Except he can't, because the family doctor is Sarada's mom, and Ms Uchiha is—at a guess—nine or ten years old right now. Boruto tries to imagine what she must've been like as a kid. Terrifying, probably.

Naruto cocks his head. "A what?"

"I think it's like, a bruise on your brain?" But that still gets a blank look, so Boruto shrugs. "I'm probably fine. I think if you have a concussion, you start throwing up or seeing double or getting dizzy. So it's really not a big deal."

He's ready with a whole armada of excuses for not wanting to go to a doctor, but apparently there's no need. Naruto only nods indifferently, brushing the dirt from his knees and palms. Fair enough—he's probably never had a bruise last more than a few minutes in his life, if the way Dad heals in the future is anything to go by. In his eyes, a concussion _would_ be a minor inconvenience. Them's the perks of being a jinchuriki.

"Well, I know somewhere they won't follow us," says Naruto. His authoritative tone is offset by the wide, crooked grin spreading across his face. "How d'you feel about grabbing some ramen? I'm starving."

Boruto opens his mouth, then stops.

 _I can't, sorry_. That's what he should say. He's probably already screwed something up in this timeline by jumping in on the fight and then _talking_ to his Dad. Heck, he'd even accidentally let slip about the shadow clones when apparently this Naruto hasn't learned that technique yet. Besides, he needs to figure out how to use the spiral tree to get back home. Home, where Himawari and Mom are waiting for him. They're probably getting dinner ready, with the windows shuttered against the wind, and if he's late it'll just be the two of them.

But Naruto is looking at him with a hesitant, hopeful look in his eyes, and Boruto _knows that look_. He's seen it on Himawari, who's still enough of a kid to hope that Dad might come home early and take them to the summer festival. He's seen it in the mirror, when he's stupid enough to think that maybe _this_ time, maybe when he shows Dad the new technique he learned, maybe when he dumps paint over the Hokage Monument, maybe for once Dad will actually pay attention to him and only him.

He hasn't talked to his Dad for this long in years. Even when he does, it's all platitudes and everything he doesn't want to hear. This is effortless. _Easy_ , even. This Naruto isn't Boruto's dad, but he's close enough as makes no difference. He's infuriating but _comprehensible_ , and if he actually _wants_ to spend time with Boruto—

"That sounds great." His voice cracks a little, but he's grinning despite himself. "Ichiraku's?"

Naruto lights up. "You know it?"

"Best ramen in the village. How could I not?" A truth universally acknowledged in the Uzumaki family; Grandpa Iruka would probably disown him if Boruto broke tradition. Then he remembers, and his stomach sinks. "Except—oh, crap. I don't think I can. I'm out of cash."

"Eh, who cares— I've got some, and the old man gives me a discount so long as I don't buy too much." He points a finger at Boruto. "You'd better pay me back, though. I told you, I don't owe you."

"I'm starved, man," Boruto says honestly. "If you can get me a bowl of ramen, I'll owe _you._ I mean, I don't have cash, but anything else? I'm there."

"Ha! I like the sound of that."

As they make their way out of the forest, Naruto musing gleefully over the possibilities of his newfound leverage and Boruto rolling his eyes at the more outlandish suggestions, he looks back only once. Just to reassure himself that the forest is still standing, that he can go back whenever he needs to. And he's going to, definitely, right after they get ramen. What can a few more hours hurt on a scale of twenty years?

* * *

They don't pay chunin instructors enough.

If it were just teaching, that would be one thing—sometimes Iruka _prays_ for a day where all he has to do is teach. But then there's the hassle of keeping track of all the kids, and knowing who's doing well, who needs extra help, and who's on the verge of a breakdown. There's the constant task of keeping troublemakers separated in class, not to mention dealing with parents that are _still_ complaining about their kids being in the same room as 'the Uzumaki boy', for all that it's been three years without the slightest incident. And now the kids are starting to get even crazier under the new and disorienting effects of young hormones, and half of them barely know what chakra is. Calling it a Sisyphean task is understatement.

"I'm quitting," he says tiredly, looking over yesterday's history quiz— they _just_ went over this in class, and Kiba's still determinedly scribbling down ' _the second Hokage Hashirama Senju'_ without a care in the world. Shikamaru's paper is completely blank except for a dried patch of drool, and Hinata's gone crossing out all her correct answers in a fit of uncertainty. "I swear I'm quitting. There's got to be someone better at this job, but there's no way I can make these kids into ninja. It's just _not going to happen._ "

"You say that every week," says Mizuki tolerantly. He's going through the taijutsu scores, and Iruka can read the tone of his voice without looking up. "But you're always here, aren't you? Admit it, you like the brats."

Iruka looks at him beseechingly. "How can you be so relaxed _?_ We both know it was an easier time in the border trenches. At least then I wouldn't have Hiashi Hyuga sending me strongly worded letters about his daughter's 'unacceptably amateurish taijutsu', when half my work's _undoing_ everything she's told at home—"

"I don't understand why you're still reading those letters."

"—and I don't care about archaic clan laws, obviously Sasuke _isn't_ old enough to live unsupervised if he's just going to come to class with injuries from overtraining on his own; that's just common sense!"

The other chunin instructor stretches his arms behind his head, and sighs. "Maybe you should go home early, Iruka. You seem a bit wired."

Damn Mizuki for being so reasonable. He's always been more easygoing than Iruka—a trait that apparently serves him well in brushing off all the unreasonable demands of working as a teacher. Where Iruka's driven half to distraction trying to make them all _settle down_ , Mizuki just rolls his eyes and carries on with the lesson.

"Maybe you're right." Iruka rubs his eyes. "I'm no help to anyone right now, am I? I'll mark the rest of these at home."

"Don't apologize. You're worn to the bone. Just go on, already."

Iruka gives him a clap on the shoulder as he leaves—honestly, what would he do without a coworker like Mizuki?—and tucks the papers into his bag. His eyes are aching, his shoulders are stiff, and his stomach is a knot of hunger. Better grab some ramen on the way home— Suzume keeps telling him he'll die of a heart attack at forty, but he's long since resigned himself to a bachelor's lifestyle. Then, when he gets home, a shower and tea, and maybe he'll actually get some sleep for a change once he's finished marking the tests? Perish the thought.

Tension seeps out of his shoulders with each step he takes away from the Academy gates. Mizuki's right, as usual—he needed to take a break.

The sun is setting in a burst of color over the forest, streaking the sky in vibrant orange fringed in red cloudbursts that fade to fuchsia. A gentle, warm breeze from the east brushes across his face and billows his sleeves. It smells sweet, like fresh earth instead of the slightly sour tang of a crowded village—a nice change from the stagnant weather they've been having lately.

A few of his students are out with their parents—they wave at him shyly, and he smiles in return. There's a group of chunin in street wear meandering downtown, and one of them flags him down. "Oi, Iruka! We're heading out for a drink! Wanna come with?"

Ah, to be active duty and reckless again. "Sojuro! Looks like you've already been drinking."

"Just a bit," admits the man, leaning heavily against the woman beside him—whether out of actual tipsiness or strategic flirtation, who knows. She's more concerned with her flask, and barely seems to notice. "C'mon! S'been ages. We should catch up!"

"I have to teach a class of ten-year-olds how not to lose a finger throwing shuriken tomorrow," he says dryly. "It'll be a headache either way, but I'd just as soon not have a hangover."

Sojuro groans hugely. "Can't believe you're still holed up at the Academy, man!"

Another of the chunin, a woman with close-cropped dark hair, nods emphatically. "Betcha anything Cap could put in a transfer request if I asked him—it's a damn fucking shame you're off active duty, Umino— best goddamn sensor _I_ ever teamed up with, and not half as fucking pretenshish. Pretentious. Fuck it."

Iruka, who hadn't recognized her before, laughs. "Ran! You cut your hair!"

"Lost a bet," she says thickly. "Come on, let's get drunk—drunker—an' I'll tell y'bout it."

He gives an apologetic smile and shrugs. "Wish I could. You know how it is—papers to grade, lessons to plan. Another time?"

"Nah," Sojuro says mournfully, slinging an arm around his female companion. "We're heading back to the fuckin' swamps tomorrow afternoon. S'why we're takin' this opportune moment to get ourselves hammered with some decent booze."

"Let me know when you're back in town, and we can celebrate with a round of drinks." Iruka gives a crooked smile, inwardly lamenting for his withering wallet. Between constant takeout dinners and Naruto's occasional insatiable ramen binge, finances are a bit tight. But for old friends, he can make it work. "I'll foot the bill."

"Oh, _shit_ ," says Ran worshipfully. "I fucking love you, Umino."

"Hell, man, you don't know what you've gotten yourself into," warns Sojuro. "This woman could drink a Senju under the table. She's a menace."

The other woman—the one Sojuro keeps unsubtly trying to cop a feel from- tips her flask upside-down over the ground with an air of dissatisfaction. "I'm dry. Are you gonna talk all night, or are we gonna find some good stuff already? I don't want to feel my teeth tonight."

"I'd better get going," Iruka says, chuckling. "Have a drink for me."

Ran winks. "I'll have two. Go home an' grade some fucking papers, teach."

He laughs again, waves, and turns to keep walking down the street. The sun is dimming behind the cover of trees, now, and the light is fading fast. Restaurants all down the streets have begun to turn on their lights, and street vendors are bolting their stalls. Iruka quickens his pace, but unnecessarily so. When he turns the corner, light is still streaming out through the breaks in the cloth partition, together with the heavenly smell of simmering broth.

Iruka reaches out to push the cloth aside, when a familiar voice stops him short.

"So then I rigged up an explosive tag with a whole bag of red chili dust and snuck it into his classroom during lunch, right? So when he sat back down he triggered the wire and _bam_ —you could hear the sneezing all the way outside!" The unmistakably gleeful cackle of Naruto Uzumaki accompanies this proclamation. "And they tried to pin it on me, but I was in the middle of taijutsu practice and they couldn't prove a thing! I got off completely free!"

The familiar muscle tic in Iruka's eyelid takes up residence like it never left. They'd been cleaning up that mess for _days_ , it sent all their lesson plans completely out the window, and Sachi Inuzuka still bursts into tears when anyone brings it up. _Got off completely free? Not anymore, you didn't._

He's readying himself for the lecture of a lifetime. Not that he expects it to stick, god help him, but _someone_ has to corner Naruto with the consequences of his actions.

"You're _kidding!_ " says another young voice wistfully, and Iruka pauses. "Whenever I do something like that, Mom half kills me. Her lectures are the _worst._ "

That voice— there's something both familiar and strange about it, but Iruka's almost certain it's not a voice he recognizes. Who could it be? He doesn't remember Naruto mentioning any new friends lately. If anything, the children of the village are still treating him with a steady mixture of contempt and indifference, the watered-down product of their parents' revulsion.

"I don't have a mom." Naruto doesn't sound especially troubled by the admission. "Or a dad. Just the old man Third, and he's not much for lectures, anyway."

"I might as well not have a dad," says the other boy sourly. "That loser doesn't care about his family at all. He's never home, and he makes Mom worry and doesn't even care, and half the time when he is home it's just a clone. Even when I get in trouble he barely reacts."

There's a pensive pause.

"That's stupid," comments Naruto. "If I had a family I'd always wanna go home."

The other boy's laugh is oddly bitter. "Would you really?"

"Well, _duh._ I mean, I could stay out all night and no one would even notice!" He hesitates, for a moment, then continues: "And even if I was missing, it's not like anyone would care. If you— if you have a family— you're _lucky_. You can't just—"

"Take it for granted?" The second voice twists into something both petulant and miserable. "Try telling him that. I don't think he understands. Even when he says he's _sorry_ , he's always apologizing for the wrong thing. And he never changes. Everyone just says I'm being selfish, I shouldn't distract him from his work." He clears his throat. "It's not like— _I_ can handle it if he's never around. But my mom and my sister..."

Iruka shakes himself, feeling his ears redden. It's rude to eavesdrop, and especially unbecoming of a teacher to listen in on one of his students having a personal conversation. He came here for ramen, and his time would be better spent fetching it- a lecture can wait.

He pushes his way past the divider, schooling his expression into something more impassive. "Evening, Teuchi! Think I could get a bowl of miso takeout?"

As expected, Naruto spins around in alarm to stare at him. "Ah! Iruka-sensei! What're _you_ doing here?"

"I don't live at the Academy, you know." Iruka slides into his chair, turning to look at Naruto over his shoulder. If this also coincidentally puts the other boy into his line of sight—well, it's not his fault, is it? "And I do, occasionally, like a bite to eat."

Then he blinks. _Seeing double?_

No. Not quite. Two spiky heads of blond hair, two sets of sharp blue eyes, and two whiskered faces, but there are slight differences. Not to mention, he's never seen Naruto wear a color besides orange voluntarily, and the boy beside him is clad in a loose-fitting black-and-pink jacket.

Iruka has about three-fourths of a second to process this.

The instant the other boy hears Naruto's say Iruka's name, the color vanishes from his face. He stiffens, eyes wide in panic, and then ducks his head so fast it's a miracle he doesn't crack his forehead on the counter. Iruka then has another half second to realize with a jolt that the dark patch on the back of the boy's head is _dried blood_ before the kid mutters something under his breath and _bolts._

"Huh?" Naruto turns, his face falling to confusion. "What d'you mean, you're leaving—?"

But he's already gone.

* * *

The electric display of the clock on Naruto's laptop has just flickered from 9:59 to 10:00, and he still has seventy-four folders stacked in the tray marked 'Urgent'. It's tempting, _so_ tempting to just sign through the lot without reading them, but there's always someone trying to slide a shady council proposal under the radar. The last thing the village needs is their Hokage approving the renewal of ROOT or something just because he couldn't be bothered to read the fine print.

Instead, Naruto thinks longingly of the dinner Hinata's probably long since tucked away in the fridge, takes another gulp of black coffee, and grimaces. Old man Third had his pipe, Tsunade had her booze, Kakashi had his porn, and here Naruto is with a burgeoning caffeine addiction. It's probably fate.

The door opens without a knock, and he barely has to look up. "Hey, Shikamaru."

If there's anyone working hours longer than Naruto, it's Shikamaru. And isn't that the worst kind of irony? Naruto, who never did his schoolwork, and Shikamaru, who never wanted to work at all. Now they're the two gainfully employed figureheads of the village.

"You heading home?" Shikamaru asks, thumbing through the tabs on the folders. "It's getting late."

"Like you're one to talk."

"Nah. Temari's still in Sand." He rubs the back of his neck with a long-suffering air, but there's the driest hint of warmth in his voice. "Thought she'd give me an earful about leaving the kid alone, but it turns out Shikadai's over at Ino's place on account of the weather."

The implication is obvious, but Naruto chooses to ignore it. He loves his family, just as much as he loves his village. As Hokage, he looks after both of them. He doesn't think he could distinguish between the two if he tried. "Weather?"

"Gale-force winds since this morning. There's a storm warning on the radio; the Academy let out an hour early. You didn't notice?"

"Mph," says Naruto, draining the rest of the coffee from the cup. "Had work."

"You seriously need a secretary, man."

Yeah, Kurama's been complaining along the same lines for months. Maybe years—it started to get repetitive after a while. Which, yeah, makes sense. The big guy gets a little stir-crazy without the chance to stretch his, uh, chakra legs? But it's not Naruto's fault they're not always needed on the battlefield these days.

_Isn't it?_

Naruto brushes that unnecessary remark away with a wave of mental exasperation. Okay, maybe it is his fault, but it's definitely not a _problem_. He's been working day and night to keep building the structures of peace among the allied nations. If the power of a jinchuriki isn't needed, that's just a sign he's succeeding in fixing a broken world.

"S'fine," he says to Shikamaru. "I've got shadow clones. Pretty much the same."

The man gives a skeptical snort, and tosses the folder back on the table without opening it. Which means he totally just came in here to check on him. Naruto hides a laugh. Shikamaru can deny it all he likes; it's _absolutely_ Temari's influence. "Don't pass out at your desk again. Last time the chunin clerk thought you'd been poisoned."

"The guy's too jumpy, anyway," he jokes tiredly, and reaches automatically for the next folder in the stack. "He could use a bit of a scare every once in a while. Keep him on his toes."

"Seriously." Shikamaru glances over his shoulder just before closing the door. "The village won't suddenly fall to pieces in your absence."

"Not impossible." He yawns so widely his jaw pops. "It _has_ happened before."

"Good _night_."

The door closes with a quiet click, and Naruto chuckles briefly before looking back down at the report. A request for construction permissions; _why_ do these forms always get filtered through Headquarters? Isn't there a division for that? He really should figure out a way to delegate this kind of thing. He yawns again, and rubs his swimming eyes.

Two folders later, and no amount of blinking will keep his eyes from blurring. He squints to make out the last few lines—diplomatic report from Mist, they've been arguing over territorial concessions on the mainland for months now—and signs to approve it for Council deliberation. It can be someone else's problem for a while, until the cycle of paperwork comes around to him again whenever they make their decision.

Then the door slams open, and his pen skids off the page. "Shikamaru-?"

But it's Hinata. Her Byakugan is active, and she's holding Himawari on her hip with one arm. Their daughter clings to Hinata's neck tightly, even though she's gotten altogether too big to be carried around casually. She's sniffling quietly, and Hinata's face is pale and bloodless, her mouth a flat line of worry. Behind them, Shikamaru enters the room silently, face grave.

"Hinata!" Naruto's out of his chair in an instant. "Hinata, what's wrong?"

"It's Boruto. He's missing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly impromptu ending; once a chapter breaks 8k we're kinda out of the 'weekly update' scene. Thanks for all the great comments! :)


	3. Rapidly Reconsidering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view  
> That stand upon the threshold of the new.

"It's Boruto. He's missing."

It's an odd sensation, like all the air has been sucked from his lungs and replaced with cement. Breathe. He needs to breathe, but there's a weight pressing down on his diaphragm every time he tries. It's only the sound of Himawari whimpering against her mother's shoulder that drags Naruto back to himself, lets him force out: "For how long?"

"I—I don't know." She shakes her head. "I thought he'd gone to a friend's house after school, but he wasn't home for dinner. I called Ino first, and then Tenten, Choji, even Kiba and Iruka, just in case. No one had seen him. And then it got dark—" Her voice is breaking. "I didn't want to leave Himawari alone, so—Naruto, where could he _be?_ "

There are too many possible answers to that question, and most of them make Naruto's stomach twist. He's hoping— _god_ , is he hoping—that it's innocuous. Maybe Boruto got waylaid by the weather. Maybe he took shelter somewhere Hinata hasn't checked yet. Ichiraku's, maybe, or Kakashi-sensei's apartment. Or maybe it's worse. If he's hurt, or lost—Naruto swallows down his mounting worry—no. It's unlikely. Boruto can fend for himself better than most kids his age, and he knows the whole village back to front. More importantly, the village knows _him._ There's no criminal in a hundred miles suicidal enough to go after the Seventh Hokage's son.

Unless, of course, they're after him _because_ he's the son of the Hokage.

"Start a search," he says. His voice sounds distant to his own ears, barely audible through the rush of fury and fear. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kurama roars agreement. "Shikamaru—"

"Already on it." The other man has a cell out, and is dialing without looking down. "We need to pin down who last saw him and where. Hinata, use the office phone to call Sakura at the hospital. If Boruto's injured, someone will have brought him in. Have you called anyone else?"

"I left a message at your home, and spoke with Sarada. That's all."

Naruto reaches for Kurama's chakra, and the fox gives it up readily, eager to retake the battlefield. It sends out ribbons of twining scarlet energy to twine with Naruto's own, and he's just raising his hands to form a cross seal when Shikamaru stops him with a raised hand.

"You'd better not."

He just keeps from snarling outright. "Boruto's _missing!"_

"I know." Shikamaru scrubs a hand up and down his face, and the grimness in his eyes gives Naruto pause. "Believe me, I _know_. But running off half-cocked is only going to cause a panic, and if foul play is involved, it'll be twice as hard to track down whoever's involved."

He's right. Naruto _knows_ he's right; it's Shikamaru, after all, the most brilliant strategist in all the Allied Nations. That doesn't make it any less wrenching to force his hands out of what is, by now, well-honed defensive habit, and let the turbulent storm of his chakra die down to simmering unrest. "Fine," he says. The word tastes acrid in his mouth. "Fine. But when we find them, we're coming down on the bastards like the fist of god."

A sharp, mirthless smile curves one side of Shikamaru's mouth. "Of course."

 _I never go back on my word_. The promise steadies him, as inexorable as if he'd carved it in blood. "We'll find him," he repeats, twining his fingers through Hinata's free hand. She squeezes it hard enough to break a non-jinchuriki's fingers, and nods.

* * *

Mom's told Boruto a thousand times: _you can't run away from your problems._

As he darts unevenly between drunk pub-goers and off-duty ninja in the shadowed lanes of an unfamiliar (too familiar) village, all he can think is that he should have run away sooner. It's long after dark, and he never meant to stay this long.

He shouldn't have stayed in the first place. _God_ , what an idiot. Maybe he'd been justified to break up the beatdown in the forest—past, present, or future, Boruto has a special loathing for bullies—but sticking around after that? Talking with Dad, letting himself be talked into going for ramen, and pretending like everything was okay when it wasn't?

The problem—the stupid, irrational problem—was that Naruto Uzumaki turned out against all odds to be _really likeable_. He was stubborn and expressive, with a mischievous streak a mile wide and a laugh so much like Himawari's it hurt. (And that has to be genetic somehow, because Boruto hasn't heard that laugh since before Dad became the Hokage.) He listened, in a way that Dad either couldn't or wouldn't, and beyond all odds, he _understood._

One bowl of ramen became two, and then three. Indulgently, the old man at Ichiraku's didn't hurry them away. It felt like a reparation for every time Dad swore he'd come home early and never did. Looking at that familiar face, he'd poured out every hurt and grievance he'd never been able to voice at home. He didn't have to worry about burdening Mom or upsetting Himawari. Here was his one chance to be angry without hearing what a _hero_ Dad is, how he should be grateful and proud of his father because _the Lord Hokage works so hard to keep us safe, he's the greatest shinobi in the world, he stops wars single-handedly, he's the second coming of the Rikudo Sennin, don't you know he's_ busy?

Which really should've clued him in what a colossal idiot he was being. Yeah, his dad's a flake. But this is _time travel_ , not Boruto's personal vent session. It's his screw-up, and he's put off fixing it for way too long.

"Watch it," slurs someone irately, staggering back as he ducks around them.

He doesn't stop to apologize, just vaults over the stone border to the forest. Abruptly the dim light winnows away to almost nothing in the shadow of the trees: it's a bit like running blindfolded. Overhead, the oak boughs trace spidery fingers against the inky dark sky.

He has a penlight in his satchel, but he doesn't reach for it. There's a surety in the pulse pounding in his ears, and he worries that it might vanish if he stops to contemplate it. Besides, if he squints his eyes just right and looks past the hint of moonlight, he can almost glimpse a different sort of glow. A guiding light.

_I should've said something before I left.  
_

He brushes off the thought, but not before it pricks at him reproachfully. If it were Denki, Inojin, or Shikadai going home to an empty house, he'd drag them to supper and beg Mom for a sleepover. At the very least he'd be able to honestly promise to hang out again soon. But he'd ditched Naruto without the slightest word of explanation, and that was the farthest thing from cool. He hadn't missed the loneliness shadowed in Naruto's eyes. _No one would miss me if I never went home._

 _Wish I'd had time for a proper goodbye_ , he thinks ruefully. It all happened so fast. Iruka showed up, thirty years younger but still unmistakable, and the weight of Boruto's screw-up came plummeting down in an instant. Stupid, _stupid_ , he'd gotten caught up in the conversation and forgot to be on guard for familiar faces. The flare of recognition, then confusion in the chunin's eye set off every alarm bell he had, and well-trained instinct was spamming the _flight_ button on his fight-or-flight panel. So he hid his face and ran, and it was probably for the best. It _is_ for the best.

 _I don't exist in this time,_ Boruto repeats to himself like a mantra. _I don't exist._

Neither does that Naruto—the kid he'd ditched in the ramen shop. That's not his dad, just a shadow of the person he was years ago. Trying to get some weird absolution from him—it's messed up. Like a horror movie, where Boruto is the ghost haunting the castle, never realizing the person he's really waiting for died overseas centuries ago. Then there's the tragic ending, and Boruto wants _no part_ in that, at all.

He sucks at lying to himself.

A sudden brightening of the light drags him out of his fit of self-loathing long enough to squint in confusion through the trees. For a moment he thinks it must be his imagination. But no: streaming through gnarled branches, casting shadows from roots and jutting stones, dazzling his night-dilated pupils, it's too clear to be anything but real. He rushes forward with his pulse in his throat, pushing through the brambles to see it clearly.

The spiral blazes in the darkness like a single star.

If this is one huge ongoing technique, if it's a genjutsu or actual time distortion, this has got to be the lodestone at the center of it. Which is... unsettling, a bit. Boruto's handful of chakra was maybe a tenth of the energy spent creating a single clone. At most it might have activated a basic storage seal. More to the point, it was the kind of trick you saw in crappy summer movies to open hidden compartments in ruined ancient temples. Compared the power it would (theoretically) take to deconstruct the fabric of time, it was a thimble in an ocean.

If this thing is still active, it's not being powered by Boruto. It's siphoning energy from someone—or something—else. And that source must be unimaginably huge.

On the bright side, the seal shows no signs of fading. Hopefully that means he's not stranded yet. On the other hand, autoprogrammed time travel lodes kind of _freak him the hell out_. Whoever designed this thing had an agenda, and probably didn't intend for an eleven-year-old kid to activate it by accident. (So _how did he?_ _Why would it? Who would design a seal like that, and leave it alone in the pits of an empty forest?)_

No, he's stalling. He's scared of what might happen if he tries again.

 _Can't get worse_ , he tells himself. This is also a lie—it can definitely get worse. What if he goes back another twenty years? What if he goes back a hundred, ends up caught in the middle of the clan wars? Forget screwing up his own birth, he could screw up the founding of the entire village. In that scenario, the best option _would be_ to make himself scarce, spend the rest of his life in hiding while events continued normally.

But that would mean never seeing Mom again, or Himawari. It would mean never going home. And he's not going to give that up without even trying.

He takes a breath, reaches out, and presses his hand to the spiral.

* * *

Sarada wishes she'd brought a thicker jacket. The cutting wind has gentled since the afternoon, but the setting sun snatched away what little warmth was left in the air. Now it's still blustery and twice as cold, leaching away the sensation in her fingertips. She wraps her hands around the back of her neck, where body heat radiates warmest, but there's nothing she can do about her exposed face and toes.

She wouldn't even have to be here if it weren't for stupid Boruto Uzumaki.

Mom called her straight from the hospital—she _never_ does that—and started asking questions about Boruto with barely a greeting.  _When did you last see him? Who was he with? How was he acting?_   Talk about bizarre. Mom ought to know by now that Sarada and Boruto aren't friends. So what if their parent used to be teammates? After the fourth time Sarada left Boruto tied to a tree with razor wire (totally justified revenge, incidentally), they'd stopped insisting on playdates. By now, the only interaction they had was at school and awkward holiday gatherings.  
  
Not to mention Ms Uzumaki had called around sunset, sounding worried. One weird call, Sarada could explain as Boruto being his usual chronically irresponsible self. But _two?_

"Last I saw him was at school," she repeated, for the umpteenth time. "No, I don't know where he went after. Shikadai might. Mom, what--?"  
  
"Sorry, sweetie, I have to run." Even by usual hospital standards, Mom sounded harried. "Just stay home, okay? And call me if Boruto comes by."  
  
"But--"

"And keep your weapons close. Just in case."

And then Mom hung up, leaving Sarada to stare in utter bewilderment at the phone receiver for about thirty seconds. Mom was tense. Six-hour-surgery-on-thirty-minutes'-sleep tense, not just your garden variety weariness. She wanted Sarada armed. And she was absolutely, definitely, keeping Sarada out of the loop. This called for an emergency investigation. And if there was one reliable source for Academy-related gossip...  
  
"Chocho," she said, without waiting for a greeting. "Do you know what's going on with Boruto?"

Unnervingly, Chocho _hadn't_ heard anything (though she demanded to hear the details as soon as Sarada unearthed them). Which... a lot of things could be said about Boruto, but _quiet_ was never among them. If he was pulling a stunt bad enough to upset Mom, the whole village ought to know about it by now. That was worrying-- enough that Sarada pulled out the list of phone numbers Mom kept by the fridge and dialed the Nara residence.

Shikadai answered halfway through the first ring. "Hello?"  
  
"Hey, it's Sarada Uchiha," she began. The awkwardness of the situation was catching up with her; unlike with Chocho, she'd never spoken much with Shikadai outside of class. She knew him only peripherally, as Boruto's friend and Chocho's childhood playmate. Certainly they weren't in the habit of gossiping about classmates. "I was just wondering if you'd heard anything about Boruto."  
  
There was a static-filled sigh. "You got interrogated, too, huh? Yeah. He's missing."  
  
She nearly choked. " _What?_ Your dad told you?"

"No." A faint sound of irritation. "The old man pulled rank on me, said it wasn't my business. But come on. They wouldn't be making this big a fuss if he'd just taken the head off the Hokage mountain again. They're worried because they don't know where he is, and they think he's been kidnapped."

True. As the vaunted son of the Seventh Hokage, Boruto had barely gotten a slap on the wrist for landing a train-sized crater into the base of the upper village. Paradoxically, her stomach twisted. "You don't know where he is, then."

"If I did, I'd have told them," answered the boy laconically. "You think I'd lie to my dad?"

She knew for a fact that Shikadai would lie to his dad in a heartbeat if Boruto asked him to. Oh, he'd grumble about it, complain about troublesome best friends (which he and Boruto definitely are; no accounting for taste), and do his best to convince Boruto not to be stupid. But when it came down to it, under all the grousing he had a loyal streak to rival Sarada's own. It was probably just as well that Boruto was too simple to think of abusing their friendship.

But just then, his voice had been sharp. Not with deceit—he was nearly as good a liar as Inojin when he put the effort in—but with worry. "You're going out to look for him, aren't you? Where? I'll come along."

There was silence from the other end of the line.

"What?" she demanded, growing annoyed. "The sooner that idiot is back where he belongs, the sooner we can all get back to our regularly scheduled incompetence. Besides, _someone_ has to tell him what a brat he's being."

"...Around the forest," admitted Shikadai. "I called Inojin and Denki. We were going to check it out, see if he fell off a building and dented his skull or something."

"Got it. I'll be there in five."

"Wait, Sarada." There was an aggravated pause so long she nearly hung up on him. Then he sighed, a rush of noisy static. "You shouldn't. If there really are kidnappers in the city, they might be after a bloodline. You're an Uchiha; you should stay clear."

"I'm not going unarmed, _obviously_ ," she snapped. "I've got chakra flares, blades, explosive tags and razor wire, and it's not as though I'm going out alone."

"Yeah, well, Boruto isn't exactly defenseless either," muttered Shikadai with unusual acerbity. "He had a bag full of pointy objects, and it doesn't seem like that helped him much."

"I'm better than Boruto," she said, because it was true. "Anyway, who's to say they're after a dojutsu? Boruto hasn't awakened his Byakugan yet, if he even _has_ one. Maybe they just want leverage. Which means their next logical target after Himawari would be _you_. Your dad's the head strategist and your mom's the Kazekage's sister. Two birds with one stone."

Not to mention Sarada's parents would be less likely to negotiate with kidnappers, and more likely to flip, go nuts, and stab everyone involved. She loved her mom, she really did. But she was also keenly aware how relentlessly terrifying Mom could be in a fury. And Dad—well, Sarada had met him maybe twice that she remembered. She was _almost_ entirely certain he'd come to help if she got kidnapped. But Sasuke Uchiha, _retired international terrorist_ , didn't really have a reputation of calmly seeking bloodless solutions, and "help" was a word with variable connotations.

"Ugh," said Shikadai, and she recognized it smugly as the sound of capitulation. "Fine. Five minutes. If you're not at the gates in seven, I'm calling your mom."

"Give me eight, and I'll pick up Chocho on the way."

He'd answered with a sigh, which she'd figured was as good as agreement.

Long story long, that was how Sarada ended up wandering the dark woods at this ungodly hour in much colder weather than anticipated. The best-laid plans, as they say. She's tempted to backtrack and find Chocho, who's searching the eastern half of the woods while the boys check the streets around the perimeter. Her exuberance would be a nice distraction from the cold, and Sarada wouldn't have to keep jerking around at every unexpected rustle of the branches.

No, she has to focus. The sooner they track down Boruto or a clue about his disappearance, the sooner they can all go home. It's more efficient with them split up. Inojin and Shikadai have the advantage of stealth in the alleys, while Sarada and Chocho are heavy hitters who can deal with trouble in the forest. And Denki... well, he's not useless, exactly. But he's scurrying after the other boys, which is probably for the best.

Sarada slides one hand into her satchel, just to reassure herself that the chakra flares are where she left them. Inojin had distributed three to each of them before they split up. If any of them finds Boruto, or gets ambushed, they'll be able to send out an SOS.

At least when Mom chews her out for leaving the house, she'll be able to honestly say they took good safety precautions.

Ha. Like that'll help.

She trips over a broken root for the third time and swears under her breath. She's been blinking into Sharingan every few minutes to look around, but it's enough of a drain on her chakra that even a few seconds can leave her winded. The rest of the time, she's got her hands full just trying not to walk into trees. It makes sense not to use a flashlight and risk drawing attention, but at this rate she won't find Boruto unless she steps on him.

Oh, whatever. It's not like a few more seconds will wipe out her chakra. She focuses briefly, and when she looks up she can actually _see_ : the shadows shift into high contrast, and the outline of the knotted earth stretches around her with heightened clarity. This is totally not the intended use of the Sharingan, but the same mechanic that allows her to see techniques vividly enough to copy them does a bangup job of mimicking night vision. Obviously the Byakugan would be more useful, but she's working with what she's got.

She's scanning the treetops for enemies when a blaze of light startles her out of the Sharingan and leaves her blinking in the dark again.

_What was that?_

It's gone as soon as it's there, like the flash of a camera. She almost wonders if it was her vision whiting out from chakra exhaustion—no, she would _know_ if she was that tired, and she's _not_ —but it couldn't be one of Inojin's chakra flares either. Did Chocho mistake one of her flash tags for a chakra flare and set that off instead?

She might be in trouble, then. Sarada pulls out a kunai and steps toward the light, relying on her memory of the land to sidestep the roots. Nobody, but _nobody_ goes after Chocho on Sarada's watch, not without getting a beating for their trouble.

A branch snaps with an echoing crack.

She swivels, one hand on her kunai and the other holding a chakra flare. " _Who's there?_ Show yourself!" She reaches for the Sharingan, but she's off-balance and her control isn't steady—her vision flickers in, out, in and out again.

"I'm sorry!" yelps the voice, and it's oddly... familiar? "I'm not an enemy, I'm just lost, just hold your fire or whatever—"

No, wait. Sarada doesn't need a Sharingan to identify that voice, and her eyes straining against the darkness can pick out the faintest outline of a leonine head, a figure too short to be adult, barely taller than her, making his way gingerly between the trees. That's a voice she's known since she was a kid.

She swallows. "Boruto?"

* * *

In the five minutes since the blond kid absconded, the atmosphere at Ichiraku's went from tense to downright unpleasant.

"I told you, I don't know his name!" growls Naruto. He's upset and snowballing towards angry if the look on his face is anything to go by. Iruka's line of questioning isn't winning him any favors with the kid. "He never said it, and I never asked!"

"Why _not?_ " That was the wrong question to ask. Naruto's eyes snap to his.

"He never asked who I was, and jeez, whaddaya care anyway? He's just some kid! The village is full of 'em. And you already ran him off, so go nag someone else!" The boy gestures sourly at his empty bowl on the countertop. "What, is it against the rules to eat ramen now? Either give me detention or go away."

Iruka can _feel_ Teuchi giving him a disappointed look from behind the counter. Yes, he's aware he's adding insult to injury after inadvertently scaring off Naruto's new friend. But he's meant to keep an eye on his students and make note of anything unusual. He's quite certain that if there were another whisker-faced blond boy in the city, everyone would know about him. By criminal association, at the very least.

For a boy like that to appear and suddenly begin making friends with a lonely, outcast jinchuriki—well, Iruka's a ninja. His career is built on healthy suspicion.

"It's my job to look after my students, Naruto."

Naruto gives an immense snort of disbelief and shoves his bowl back to Teuchi along with a wrinkled clump of bills. "Oh yeah? I didn't see you when I was getting my butt kicked today. Maybe I was distracted by the guy who _was_ helping."

Iruka knows—he _knows_ Naruto is bullied. Still, the reminder feels like a kick in the solar plexus. He can't be everywhere, and if Naruto would just _tell the teachers_ when there were issues he might be able to intervene. (Or maybe not. The Academy does have an old policy of letting the kids settle their own disputes. They claim it builds character, teaches them how to handle themselves outside a sparring circle.) Whoever said teaching was a rewarding job was a filthy liar.

"Can you think of any reason he might look so much like you?" he asks relentlessly. Naruto's trying to make him feel guilty. He's succeeding, too, but Iruka's not so easily put off his questioning. Not until he's sure Naruto is safe. "Surely you noticed?"

"Well, _duh_ ," snaps Naruto, rolling his eyes with all the annoyance of a ten-year-old scorned. "It's kinda obvious. So what? It's a coincidence."

He says this last word carefully, like he's quoting someone who said it to him. Reciting an old argument without being entirely convinced by it.

"Is that what he told you?"

This is, apparently, the last straw. Naruto leaps from his seat, bristling like an angry cat. "Just lemme alone, okay? What do you even care?" He turns to Teuchi, growls "Keep the change, old man," and storms out of the stand, leaving the curtain panel billowing in his wake.

Iruka sighs and drops his face to his hands. "Can I get a beer with that ramen?"

"This isn't a bar, Iruka," the old man informs him, wiping his hands on a stained apron as he uncrumples Naruto's bills on the side of the counter. He clicks his tongue ruefully. "That Naruto. He says 'keep the change', but he's ninety ryo short."

"I'll cover it," sighs the chunin, reaching for his wallet. Figures he'd end up paying for Naruto's meal even when the kid's furious at him. He can't do much for the kid, apparently can't even keep track of who's bullying him when, but his wallet can stand to sponsor a few extra bowls of ramen. "I don't suppose you got a decent look at the doppelganger kid?"

"Sure I did."

Iruka stares. "You _did?_ "

"They were here for hours before you showed up," Teuchi informs him. His voice is perfectly even, without even a hint of accusation, but somehow Iruka still feels like he's being lectured. "They're both good kids. Not often you see Naruto take to someone like that."

'Not often someone took to Naruto like that' was probably closer to the truth. More to the point: if they'd been here for hours, then the kid isn't skittish around everyone. Just around Iruka, a chunin in uniform. "Think you could give a description of him? What he looks like, how he talks, what you remember about their conversation?"

The old man eyes him inscrutably for a long moment. "'Course I could," he grunts. "I'm a law-abiding citizen. If a village ninja asks me for a report, I'll have to give one. Is that what's going on here?"

Dammit. Iruka sighs, shaking his head. "No. Just me asking you to keep an eye out for the kid, okay? If it comes to that, I'll let you know."

Teuchi nods appraisingly. "You're a good man, Iruka Umino."

"I'm glad someone thinks so," he mutters. "You sure you don't have any alcohol around?"

"I'll see what I can find."

* * *

"Boruto?" Sarada asks warily, squinting into the darkness.

"You—wait, you know my—" The boy falters uncertainly. There's a pause, almost insultingly long, before he says slowly: "Sarada? Is that you?"

"Well, obviously!"

"Ohthank _god_ ," he says all in a rush, and his voice actually breaks in relief. "I thought I might—I thought—that doesn't matter now. Wow. I've never been so happy to see anyone in my life, and it's _you_. That's so weird. Wait, what are you doing in the woods?"

"Looking for you, of course," she says, narrowing her eyes. "A better question is what _you're_ doing here. You do know your parents are worried sick, right? Now half the council is convinced you've been kidnapped. You're in for it when we get back."

"Worried?" he echoes. "Wait, what time is it? What _day_ is it? How long was I missing?"

"Long enough. It's, what, ten-thirty? And you've been totally MIA since the afternoon. Your dad's the Hokage, Boruto. You can't just goof off and do whatever you want."

He laughs. Which, what? "Oh, man. I thought it was way longer. So it's the same for both? And you know who I am, so—wait, is Himawari okay?"

He's finally gone nuts. That's the only explanation. "Boruto, what are you _talking_ about? Your sister's fine. It's you everyone's in a panic about, because you've been missing all day. This would be a great time to explain why, since you don't look much like an abductee right now."

Unless he's drugged, or an imposter. But an enemy shinobi would probably put more effort into feigning basic sanity. No, this brand of crazy is _all_ Boruto.

"Huh? Nah, not kidnapped. That's good though." He shakes his head.

Then _winces_ immediately thereafter, his hand jerking to his head in an eerily familiar motion. Like when Mom comes home with a migraine, only Boruto's hand isn't shielded in a green haze of healing chakra. That reaction to motion, his lack of basic coherence, even going missing for hours on end. "Did you... hit your head?"

"Uh, kinda?" He shrugs. "Long story. Really, really long. You would _not_ believe me."

And that is one more non sequitur than her limited tolerance can handle. She reaches into her bag, pulls out a chakra flare, and tears it in two. A pulse of low-density chakra buzzes through her body, expanding outwards like a ripple in a pond. Theoretically, it should be tangible all the way around the forest before it fades, alerting Inojin's crew, Chocho, and all the other ninja in the area. Inojin will get here the fastest, and he can conjure an eagle to get Boruto to a doctor.

"Boruto, stay where you are," she orders him. "Stand still, okay? Help is coming."

God. She's stuck in a forest in dead of night, worried out of her mind, so of course it's all Boruto Uzumaki's fault.

* * *

Himawari is sleeping with her face pressed into Naruto's chest, and that is quite possibly the only thing preventing him from giving into the temptation to go chasing after his son. If he's _hurt_ , if he's being drugged or threatened or restrained, he—he's not sure what he'd do. Which should be _immensely worrying_. Naruto's spent his entire life working to end bloodshed and vengeance, but there's an eerily convincing part of his mind telling him just how easy it would be to rip the perpetrators limb from limb.

He thinks reproachfully at Kurama, but the fox only snorts and flicks a tail. _No way. You can't blame me for your own bloodlust, kid. I'm a reformed character._

In some ways it was easier when Kurama was growling threats all the time. Logic is a lot harder to tune out.

Luckily, Naruto gets an excuse not to answer. The three recon and sensory shinobi crowded around a map of the village on a folding desk all make startled noises at the same time, and one of them murmurs to Shikamaru. The strategist looks up sharply. "Lord Hokage! We've got a signal."

"A chakra flare in the forest," says the sensor, running his fingers through his hair. "It's half a klick east from Boruto's last reported location. Kamui's working on the coordinates now—we should send in a squad to investigate."

"I'll go," Naruto says, lurching from his chair. "I'll be there in thirty seconds. Someone hold Himawari—"

He shoves his daughter into the arms of the nearest ANBU. The man looks as startled as if he'd been handed a live explosive, but wisely chooses not to object. Himawari, ever fearless of strangers, latches onto his neck and begins to snore; the agent pats her head with a look of deep trepidation. In any other situation, Naruto would find it both hilarious and charming. Right now, his mind is a rush of worry.

(Hinata's Byakugan is activated again, and she's looking towards the forest. There's no way she can see anything-- it's way past her scope-- but Naruto knows the feeling.)

"I'm coming too," she says. Her voice is so steely that some of the sensors edge away, paling. The entire office is, as Neji would have said, well within the range of her divination. "I don't need coordinates to find them."

Naruto loves this woman _so much_.

Shikamaru looks like he wants to argue, but he only rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. "I'll stay here. Keep your comms on in case we get new—"

The rest of his words are inaudible, whipped away by the wind whistling in Naruto's ears. He's going to _find his son_.

* * *

The last few minutes have been a haze of confusion and panic for Boruto, but one thing is finally starting to break through the fog.

He's _back._ He's in his own time, just hours from when he left, and Sarada's there glowering at him like nothing's changed at all. He'd had to fight the urge to tackle her in a hug when she told him Himawari was okay, and considering it's _Sarada Uchiha_ , prickly as a hedgehog even when she's not literally equipped with pointy objects, that's saying a lot.

It was seeing her that finally dispelled the last niggling thread of doubt he'd had when the seal on the tree flashed and faded to dark. A thousand possibilities occurred to him at once, from bad to worse. What if he'd turned off the sealing mechanism and was stuck in Dad's childhood? What if he'd ended up stranded somewhere else entirely? He'd stumbled through the woods, desperate to get to the end of them and find a landmark, something to tell him exactly how bad he'd screwed himself over, but apparently ( _impossibly_ ) he hadn't. He's so relieved he feels giddy, weightless.

Sarada, however, seems rather less reassured by him.

"I'm _fine_ ," he insists, even as she levels him with a dangerously sharp look. "I just—yeah, look, you're right. I fell out of a tree—" Did he _ever._ "—and hit my head—" Not technically untrue. "—and I must have passed out or something, it's no big deal."

Okay, that was a lie. But he doesn't think she'd react well to the unabridged time travel sequence of events; more likely, she'd knock him out herself and drag him to the T&I division to get checked for brain damage or mind control. Heck, she's jumpy as it is, her voice all tight and strained. If she were anyone other than Sarada Uchiha, he'd suspect her of being worried.

Not in a million years. "I just wanna get home," he tries, without hope. "I've got a migraine to last a decade."

Predictably, she ignores him.

A shout from above distracts them both. Three eagles dive into the clearing and splash into puddles of viridian ink: Inojin, obviously, and the short figure with the flashlight is Denki. Which means the one crouching on the ground must be...

"Shikadai!" Boruto says, grinning despite himself. Maybe cooler heads can prevail. "Tell Sarada I'm _fine_. She's being totally unreasonable—ow!"

Denki accidentally shines the flashlight in his eyes, effectively screwing his night vision to hell and back. Boruto winces and covers his face.

"Unreasonable, huh?"

"It's not a damn concussion!" He blinks experimentally, but all he can see now is a blanket of darkness speckled with gray-green dots. "You try staring into a flashlight, see how you like it!"

"Boruto?" That's Shikadai's voice from the left. He pulls out a second flashlight, directing the beam carefully to the ground at their feet. "It's good to see you, man. You feeling okay?"

He sounds strange: odd, tired, but unexpectedly happy. Is that what Shikadai sounds like when he's relieved? He almost laughs at the thought. Then a second thought hits him with a less fun punchline: his friends sound relieved because he'd _worried them_.

"My head is killing me, but I'm _fine_ ," he mutters. "Sorry. Didn't mean to freak you guys out."

"No harm, no foul," says Shikadai bracingly. "Just glad you're all right."

"Well, it _is_ Boruto," murmurs Inojin, sliding his scroll and brush back into his satchel. A few crimson doves flutter up through the branches of the clearing. "He might be concussed, and who would know the difference?"

"Wow, thanks. Happy to see you too."

(And that's not even sarcasm, though he'd never admit it.  God, he missed these guys.)

Chocho bounds into the clearing with more enthusiasm than stealth. She sees him and throws her hands in the air. "Oh, come on! Aren't you at least a _little bit_ kidnapped?"

"You don't have to sound so disappointed about it."

"A girl needs her beauty sleep," she informs him primly. "And I was promised a rescue mission. If you're fine, what's the point? No excitement, no thrills, just a lot of missed sleep for nothing." She shrugs knowingly. "I _said_ you'd be fine. These guys just like to worry over nothing."

"I wasn't worried," Sarada retorts. "And given he was stupid enough to fall off a tree and hit his head hard enough to pass out, I think I'd be totally vindicated if I were."

Oof. He can already tell he's going to be hearing about this for _years_.

There's something nagging at him, tucked in the back of his mind. Something he's forgotten, something important. Something... that's shining through the branches of the trees, a moving source of light casting everything in a warm fiery glow. Not something, some _one_ , springing down from the upper canopy, wreathed in a flickering gold chakra, and a second figure dressed in pale lavender, dashing towards him—

"Mom," he says, even as she's throwing her arms around him. There's a lump in his throat, choking him so he can barely speak, but he forces the words out anyway. "Mom. Sorry I wasn't home for dinner. I— I didn't mean to make you worry."

Over her shoulder, he can see Dad, cloaked in Kurama's chakra, looking ten times older and wearier than usual. His eyes are locked on Boruto hugging Mom, but he doesn't move forward. Just stands helplessly, locked in place. There's a question there, but it's one he doesn't know how to answer.

Boruto looks away.

* * *

There's a knock at the door to the Hokage's office, and Hiruzen doesn't need to hear the familiar polite cough to guess that it's probably Iruka Umino. There are only so many people who'd have the self-assurance to bother the Hokage at this time of night, but the good manners to wait for an invitation in.

(Both foolish concerns, since Hiruzen has always permitted visitors at any hour. Not that anyone tends to listen when he points this out.)

"Iruka!" He sets down his pipe, smiling. He's always had a soft spot for the orphans of the village, and Iruka had been a more frequent visitor to the Hokage's office in his childhood than many of his Academy instructors would have preferred. Stubborn, willful, and good to the core; yes, Iruka has always had the makings of a great teacher. "Come in, come in."

The chunin ducks inside, looking a bit apprehensive. "Sorry to interrupt. I-- I wasn't sure who to report to."

Oho. Hiruzen raises an eyebrow. "Not Academy business, I take it?"

"It's about Naruto." Not an uncommon phrase, these days. Usually, though, it arrives accompanied by an ocean of weariness and dismay, shortly followed by an exhaustive recounting of the day's complaints, disasters, unexplained explosions, and so on. But Iruka doesn't appear irate; only uncertain, and perhaps slightly worried. "I found him in the village this afternoon-- ah, not that I was looking for him--" He falters into silence again.

"I understand you've taken the boy as something of a special charge," prompts Hiruzen. "I was pleased to hear it."

"Are you sure—" Iruka shakes his head, begins again. "Do you know if it's possible—does Naruto have relatives? Are there other Uzumaki in the village?"

Well.

"I would certainly be surprised to discover so," he says mildly. "I was acquainted with Naruto's parents before they passed away." Iruka fails to hide a startled blink, as though the idea of Naruto having parents had never occurred to him. "They had no other children, nor-- to my knowledge-- any surviving kin. Why do you ask?"

"I-- this afternoon-- I saw a boy with Naruto," begins Iruka, fumbling for words. "I was surprised, of course. Naruto doesn't have many friends among the other children." A delicate understatement, but Hiruzen doesn't bother to point this out. "But the two of them-- they looked nearly identical."

"Identical?"

Worrying indeed. Another Uzumaki might have been accounted for. Whirlpool had scattered to the far reaches of the globe, but a nation so strong couldn't be stamped out over the course of a decade or two. In nearly every nation, there are families with red hair and clouded origins, taking the headband of whatever village offers them shelter. But Naruto takes after his father a great deal, and Minato, Hiruzen knows for certain, was an orphan.

"They could have been brothers," Iruka continues, visibly perplexed. "Naruto can't produce any kind of clone, or I'd have wondered-- even down to the marks on his face-- it would be easier to list the differences than the similarities. When he saw me, he ran. I think he must have had some training, a few years in an Academy. A normal kid wouldn't have been capable of that reaction time."

Hiruzen nods absently, mind churning. Yes, something is afoot in his village, and he'd very much like to know what. Or perhaps more importantly, _who_. "I will make arrangements. Thank you for telling me, Iruka, and if you don't mind, please keep this news to yourself." It's a redundant order, since Iruka could hardly discuss it without violating the jinchuriki decree; but all the same, it seems an important point to stress. "Should you have any more concerns, you're always welcome in my office."

Obligingly, the younger man nods. "Sir? Naruto-- he's not in danger, is he?"

The honest answer is probably _constantly_. From the demon sealed within him, from the vitriol of the villagers around him, from the ambitions of other nations and innumerable competing political forces within the village. Who in the world, save perhaps Iruka alone, has only Naruto Uzumaki's best interests at heart?

"I'll make arrangements," repeats the Hokage. "You've been very helpful."

Iruka nods, looking reassured, and closes the door behind him. In the ensuing silence Hiruzen taps his desk with his pipe once more. Yes, he knows just the man for this task, if he can be persuaded.

"Spider." No sooner has he spoken the word than the agent appears, kneeling in the corner as if she's been there all along. "Send a message to Kakashi, would you? Tell him I have a mission for him."

* * *

After Mom and Dad show up in the forest, the next few hours are a bit of a blur.

Boruto explains his alibi again and again, increasingly dizzy with tiredness. He knows he should tell someone the truth, but Mom's already worn herself thin with worrying, and he doesn't want to throw time travel into the mix on top of everything. It's easier this way, and he's got a bump on the head to match his story, so what does it matter? The seal had faded when he came back to his own time, and nothing changed. It's completely fine.

His friends get lectured for irresponsibility—apparently they'd been disobeying direct orders by going out and searching the village when there might have been kidnappers on the loose—and sent home with escorts from the chunin guard. Mom carries Boruto all the way to the headquarters. She's barely let him go since she first saw him, and he feels nauseatingly guilty with how worried she's been.

Himawari's at HQ. She wakes up when they arrive, probably hearing Mom's voice. When she sees Boruto she tackles him around the middle- maybe it's a hug, maybe it's revenge. Hard to tell with her.

When Sarada's mom shows up to check his head, Himawari's situated herself firmly at his side and refuses to budge.

"That's certainly a nasty bump on the head." Sakura Uchiha draws back her hand, still wreathed in a soft green glow of healing chakra. "But from the look of it, I'd say it's a glancing hit. There's no damage to the bone of the skull itself, and it doesn't even seem like the soft tissue was ruptured. You said it knocked you out?"

"Uh, I don't remember?" Boruto lies nervously. "I guess it must've, right?"

The pink-haired woman frowns, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, your pressure points are undamaged. There are techniques that would render you temporarily unconscious and leave almost no mark, but I can't imagine why an assailant would revive you after several hours and let you return home safely."

He shrugs, and tries his best to look easily-assailed. Mom is holding his hand in an uncomfortably tight grip, and he wonders if she even realizes it.

"You do have accelerated healing," Sakura continues slowly. "So I suppose it's possible that the worst of the damage mended over the last few hours. Your older records don't indicate _this_ level of rapid recuperation, but you haven't suffered any serious injuries in the last few years. It's possible your bloodline is manifesting in full." She sighs. "Unfortunately, we don't have a model for comparison. Your father isn't exactly a representative sample."

(Boruto has a sudden, vivid recollection of Naruto, grubby-faced and spitting into his palm to scrub off the dried blood from a faded cut. He hadn't noticed then, but sitting here in the tidy clinic, plastered with Himawari's well-intentioned bandaids, it strikes a discordant note.)

"Tell me about it," he mutters.

As soon as they'd gotten back to headquarters, Dad had vanished off with Shikadai's dad to brief everyone on the resolved situation. Par for course, right? And of course the Hokage had to take the lead in stuff like this.

"On the bright side, you should be fine with a bit of rest," she says bracingly. "We've bandaged the injury with antibacterial cream, but if you feel dizzy, feverish, nauseous, or at all out of the ordinary, make sure you let your mom know. The last thing you want is an infected cut on your head."

"Gotcha." Then, catching Mom's eye, he amends, "Yes ma'am, I mean."

"Good kid," Sakura says approvingly. "Watch yourself, okay? Your mom and dad worry about you."

* * *

Safe in bed back at home, Boruto stares at his ceiling. Himawari had been narrowly persuaded not to sneak into his room for a sleepover; Mom had to play the recovering-from-injury card before she finally relented and let herself be tucked in, promising all the while that she'd be up to see him first thing in the morning.

It would all be perfect if his brain would just _stop thinking_.

It's a whole tangle of mixed-up in his head from all the time travel and lying. He's happy to be home, _really_ happy, and not even the guilt of upsetting his friends and hiding the truth can put a damper on that. The real thing bothering him isn't even Dad, who still hasn't come home even past midnight—it's Boruto's fault this time, so he can't complain.

 _I wonder if I can go back_.

He rolls over and pulls his pillow over his head, ignoring the stab of pain this elicits. Sarada's right. He really is an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, Boruto, is what we call being _incorrigible_. 
> 
> Edit: Thank you, _thank you_ to everyone who's left a comment or kudos. I'm very sorry for the long wait for chapter four. Unexpected events in my family-- thankfully not bad ones-- left little time for writing these past months. The update is in progress, although I can't give a definitive posting date.


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